Should I write of the cold, the wind, the rain
That welcomed me to these Vestfirðir,
The storm that nearly drove me from mountain
And sent rocks tumbling before my path?
But no, the word that came to me was not in the storm;
It was in the whisper that is your town on the eyri.
Out of the blackness, with Bunárfoss on my left,
The valley unfolded before me and led straight to you.
Only a small line of sand across the fjord,
Shadowed by mountains, surrounded by sea,
For a thousand years before me, you were there,
Humble and remote, sufficient in your isolation.
Yet you spoke to me, called my name as I drew near,
Asked me who I was, from where was I coming,
To where and to whom am I going–whither and why–
Questions I’ve asked myself a thousand times.
Was I so important that you should take notice of me?
Should I cause you to forget the centuries of men,
The crosses and stones that mark the bones
Of those who lived and breathed and died for you?
Here, they chose, to make their final stand,
With sea-salt spray licking tender wounds
As they mended their nets in the sand
Day after day after unremitting day.
And you loved them, too, in your fashion.
Sheltering them in your stony wings,
Keeping the Atlantic at bay for a time
Until they must venture beyond your borders.
And those that came back loved you all the more
For your fickle attentions, your capricious winds.
And they drank of honey and wine from your navel–
‘Til the goblet ran dry and they deserted you in droves.
But they could not wound you by their flight,
For what need had you of them–or of me?
Complete then you were and even now are,
With no need of our mannish adornments.
Do I add to your history, your legacy–did they?
Or does your value, deep-seated as the mountains,
Take no notice of the comings and goings
Of sailors and suitors, voyagers and beloveds?
Walking through your valley, overswept by peace,
With lights all aflutter above for our pleasure,
I stooped down on the beach and scrawled with my hand
A few tender lines for the tide to erase by morning.
Only you know what was said, between us two;
Only you would understand this passing poetry,
For you have heard its like before
And will hear it a thousand times again.
Why you should choose to listen to us, I know not;
Why entertain these longings and give safe harbor
To our fleeting passions and mercurial devotion,
No steadier than the ships that brought us here?
The odes we write to you, we silly mortal men,
From sailors’ lonely hearts, searching for home,
Wondering if you will be the one to take us in,
Do they give you pause enough to smile at us?
You smiled at me, one early fall in Ísafjörður.
You took my hand, leaned your head on my shoulder,
Whispering in my ear what my heart longed to hear:
“Oh, my love, you belong in a house by the sea.”
All Great and Precious Things 